


The Adventure At Armsworth Castle (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [87]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Castles, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, Lying Sherlock, M/M, References to The Brontes, Treasure Hunting, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 06:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10961412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A treasure-hunt. It sounds wonderfully exciting – but the people who wanted something found were, by any standards, horrible. Sherlock is less than honest, and John has a 'Roman' Moment.





	The Adventure At Armsworth Castle (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



Foreword: In my original 'Elementary' (1921), I had not intended to include this amongst the cases to be published. However, rumours put about by relations of the now unsadly departed Huffington-Brands - two people who must have ranked amongst the most repellent of those ever to request my friend's services – claiming that Sherlock failed their family, have prompted me to put the record straight. In one sense it was indeed a failure, albeit a carefully engineered one. And I must admit that it is a fault in my own doctor's scrawl (plus the inattention of my editor) that led to the mis-spelling on the one time I referred to this case as taking place in 'Arnsworth', not the correct Armsworth.

+~+~+

I had always felt an affinity with the works of the Brontë Sisters, and their dystopian works set in the wilds of the West Riding of Yorkshire, a county of such vivid contrasts. Thus the chance to visit the area and to not only see but actually stay in the famous Armsworth Castle, scene of a year-long Civil War siege, was welcome indeed. Unfortunately our clients in this case would turn out to be amongst the most odious of a long line of humanity who had called on my friend's great talents over the years, with the result that.... well, we shall see.

We were back in Yorkshire barely a week after the conclusion of the Darlington Substitution Scandal, and I had used the train journey to review my notes on “The Sign Of The Four”. The “Strand” magazine had most generously increased their payments for my works, and even Sherlock had seemed to be moderately impressed at my efforts, though he still said that I veered too much to the dramatic. But he said it with a smile in those blue eyes of his, and I knew that he did not really mean it as a criticism. It was a fine, sunny spring day, and once we had changed at Leeds for the local train to Keighley, I sat back contentedly in my first-class seat. My life was good just now.

Sherlock looked at me amusedly.

“I doubt that this case will feature amongst your literary achievements”, he observed. “No murder, just a treasure-hunt. For what might well be no treasure.”

“Tell me about it”, I said, sitting forward. I knew that he had received a telegram the previous evening, and I had had to send a message to the surgery in order to secure my absence for a short time. But as I have said, my slowly increasing fame benefited my employer, and they did not mind my sometimes variable attendance provided that I made my time up later.

“It concerns the recent death of Mr. Elisha Huffington, the owner of Armsworth Castle in the town of Keighley”, he began. “I am sure that you know the history of the place, and he was the last of the direct male line. He died of pneumonia at the age of fifty-four.”

I nodded; I had read of the death in the “Times” nearly a month back. I wondered why the matter was suddenly so important some four weeks on.

“Though he had no direct heirs, his cousin Mrs. Jennifer Huffington-Brand – he had 'requested' that she and her husband Horace both append his surname to their own - lived in the castle with him. They have asked me to help them out. Reading between the lines, I suspect that the fact his cousin married an Irishman did not sit well with the late Mr. Elisha Huffington, and from her tone, I do not think that Mrs. Huffington-Brand would have made much if any effort to ameliorate matters. I did have some concerns about the death when it was announced, but the local coroner told me that the man had contracted pneumonia these last three winters, it proving fatal this time. That was confirmed by his doctor.”

“The castle was the late Elisha Huffington's to dispose of as he wished, and he left a somewhat peculiar will”, Sherlock went on. “The buildings were to become, for one month, the property of his cousins, and they were to be paid an allowance for living there. But there was a catch. The will stated that the couple had to locate the whereabouts of their dead relative's wealth in that time, and if they failed so to do, then the building and its entire contents would be gifted to the town of Keighley. I have to note that they have waited until there are only three days to go before calling me in, so I am not best pleased.”

“They want you to find the money, then?” I asked. He nodded.

“There were the usual bequests to servants”, he said, “quite generous ones from what I have been told, but yes. As I said, Mr. Elisha Huffington only narrowly survived his illness last winter, and he appears to have spent the last year removing his money from bonds and investments, and presumably changing it into some other form. Whatever that was, it has successfully eluded his cousins' efforts to find it thus far.”

“So in three days they are homeless”, I observed.

“Actually no”, Sherlock said. “Their cousin left them a small house in the town, which is theirs as of right, but from Mrs. Huffington-Brand's letter, that is not an option which particularly appeals to her. I dare say that we shall know more once we reach our destination, which is but a short cab ride from the station.”

+~+~+

We arrived in Keighley some little time later, and the ride to Armsworth Castle took barely five minutes. It holds a commanding position on a hill where the little River Worth joins the much larger River Aire, and it was easy to see why it had been able to withstand a siege for so long. I remembered that legend had it that Nehemiah Huffington, who had held the castle for King Charles, had betrayed its defences to the parliamentarians in return for being allowed to keep his estates elsewhere in the county, and it was notable that, unlike other places taken at this time, the fortress had not subsequently been 'slighted' as had usually been the case.

Two rather poorly-presented servants took our bags up to our rooms, and we were asked to attend our hosts at once. We found them waiting for us in the sitting-room. 

I must say that Sherlock entertained all sorts of strange clients during his career, but few elicited such a strong negative reaction from me as the Huffington-Brands at that first encounter. Had we not had the coroner's assurance that the late Elisha Huffington's death had been from natural causes, I should have suspected them within moments of our meeting. Mrs. Huffington-Brand – 'call me Jenny, please!' - openly simpered at Sherlock, despite her husband being right there in the room! She was younger than I had expected, possibly just over thirty; it was hard to tell beneath the construction worker levels of make-up she had obviously trowelled on that morning. She also used perfume like a battering-ram; I stepped back and had to suppress a cough at the stench of violets! And her fake smile was almost as grating as her voice!

Her husband was scarcely any better, an oily fellow in his early forties with receding (and badly dyed) grey hair, a weak attempt at a moustache and small eyes. He seemed less keen than his wife in our involvement in the case, I noted. Then again, if Sherlock could find his fortune for him, he would probably think him the best thing since fresh bread!

Mrs. Huffington-Brand ( _I_ was not invited to 'call her Jenny') told us that dinner would be served shortly, but she hoped that we would swiftly get down to work. Sherlock smiled benignly.

“I first have a list of questions for you as regards the case”, he told her, as I took out my notepad to note down her replies. “And do not worry; Watson here never publishes a case without the express permission of those involved, including myself.”

She seemed to relax a little at that reassurance. I could already see myself being torn in this case, partly wanting Sherlock to succeed and partly hoping that he failed so that these obnoxious people did not get what they clearly thought they deserved.

“First”, Sherlock said, “I wish to know what, if anything, has been removed from the house since your later cousin's death.”

“Nothing”, she said firmly. “The will did make a whole host of unnecessary bequests to servants and the like, but they do not get put into effect until our month is up. Which it very nearly is!”

Sherlock would have been fully within his rights to point out at this moment that the couple had waited until the last moment before calling him in, but he did not. However, I did notice a tell-tale slight crease in his forehead, a sure sign that he was annoyed but was refraining from comment.

“Who is empowered to act as executor to the late Mr. Elisha Huffington's estate?” he asked. “I assumed that, bearing in mind the terms of the will, he could hardly have appointed your good selves.”

“That imp Stephenson, from Crampton & Brookes in town”, she sniffed. “He is _far_ too young for such a great responsibility, but he was the one who drew up this wretched will. We wanted to challenge it, but my cruel cousin made it so that if we did so and failed, we would lose even that impossibly tiny house.”

She sounded truly indignant that her inconsiderate relative had declined to leave his money to her. My regard for her late cousin increased considerably, and I suppressed a smile.

“Is Mr. Stephenson a partner at his firm?” Sherlock asked. That seemed an odd question, I thought.

“He is not even of clean birth”, Mrs. Huffington-Brand sneered. “He was adopted by old Mr. Crampton from the orphanage, when his own wife could not bear him any children. And he actually partakes in the local _theatre_!”

She spat out that last comment as if the unseen Mr. Stephenson drowned puppies in his spare time. I bit my lip. Clearly there was no love lost there. 

“There were a number of small cash requests”, Mr. Huffington-Brand said, “and they are all 'on hold' until our time here is up. There were also five non-cash bequests. That cur Stephenson got one of them, of course. Our cousin's late wife was the same, all for wasting time with the damn theatre, so he left the dog all the costumes and other equipment that she had amassed over the years, much good may it do him. He also left a set of cut glassware and a choice of any twelve bottles of wine from the cellar to Hall, the butler.”

“We must check that”, Sherlock said. “What else, please?”

“For the past two years he allowed Mr. Thomas Irwindale, who has a flower-shop in the town, to use the greenhouse for growing plants in”, Mr. Huffington-Brand said, his tone indicating clear disapproval of this arrangement. “He left the entire contents of the building to the man. He has been allowed in to tend to them, of course, but he has never been left unsupervised.”

Otherwise he might run off with a tulip, I thought cattily. Sherlock gave me a sharp look.

“That will take some searching”, he frowned. “The other two bequests?”

“Sarah, a maid who had worked here for over twenty years, got a tiny vanity-box of the late Mrs. Huffington's that she had always liked”, Mr. Huffington-Brand said. “Now I come to remember it, that box is the only thing that we did let go; after I had had it valued, of course. And Parsons, his valet who retired six months ago, actually got a life tenancy on the small house he is living in with his sister down in Haworth, it to continue if she outlives him. _Far_ too much, in my opinion. I have to say that the servants have not exactly been overly helpful in our efforts to locate my dear cousin's money.”

I wonder why that was, I thought bitchily. Sherlock shot me another look.

And stop with the mind-reading, I thought at him. I jumped when he shook his head slightly.

“Since you have obviously searched the house from top to bottom and found nothing, we must assume that the money was hidden in a form that has thus far eluded you both”, he said thoughtfully. “I shall telegraph my brother Bacchus, and see if he can trace any activity in London on your cousin's behalf over the past year, though I do not hold out much hope there. It seems that he planned everything extremely well.”

“We shall be reduced to living in a hovel!” the lady sniffed, more than a trifle melodramatically, I felt. 

“I shall do my best”, Sherlock promised. “As soon as I get up tomorrow, I shall thoroughly search his study, then I shall follow up these bequests.”

I suspected that the couple would rather that he attempted to search the room by candlelight, but they seemed to accept his decision, and at that moment the bell summoned us to what turned out to be a decidedly indifferent dinner.

+~+~+

I stared at my room in a mixture of shock and disappointment. The Huffington-Brands had either not been told of my inclusion in the case, or they had not cared. Whilst Sherlock had a master suite with, impressively, a canopied four-poster bed, I had what was quite obviously a valet's room off to one side, in which the single bed took up almost half the floor-space! It was pitiful! And matters were not helped when I came into Sherlock's room and found his sprawling across the bed, clearly enjoying its sheer luxury!

“Have you seen my room?” I groused. “Actually, forget the word 'room'. I think they just put a bed in one of the store-cupboards!”

“My room is acceptable”, he said with a smirk. “Although one can tell that the Huffington-Brands are only employing temporary staff. Still, it will do.”

I pouted. It did not get me a better room, worse luck!

+~+~+

I had a bad night's sleep. Sherlock had a rule about not sleeping together in other people's houses because one could not trust the servants, although he was fine with us being together in hotels, where he felt staff were more trustworthy (or more obliging because he always over-tipped, I thought privately). 

We spent an hour the following morning searching the study of the late Mr. Elisha Huffington. 

“A very thorough man, doctor”, Sherlock said to me as he examined the writing-desk. “Did you talk to the servants for me?”

“I did”, I said. “You were right; all the old staff left after the late Mr. Huffington's death, and these are all temporary ones. None of them like 'the Empress', as they call her, but none of them know the servants who they replaced. Only a couple are even from the town; apparently most of the locals who were asked refused to work here 'because they knew her'!”

“Not even any gossip”, Sherlock sighed, closing a drawer in the desk. “Although I think that we can safely dismiss the idea of Mr. Huffington not leaving anything at all.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I managed to catch the milkman when he called”, he said. “Mr. Elisha Huffington did not like his cousin and her husband, but he was a man of strict moral character. He had a reputation for always paying his bills on time, which was highly appreciated in the town, especially given the way some of the upper classes behave these days. I do not think that he would have put them in this situation without leaving the money in the house in one form or another.”

He straightened up.

“We must look closely at both the greenhouse, and the wine in the cellar”, he said. “I know my wines, so I will take the latter, if you go outside and see if you can find anything.”

“What if the money is hidden in the bottom of a plant-pot?” I suggested.

“If we assume the money is in the form of pearls or other precious stones, then the only hope is if the pot in question looks recently disturbed”, he said. “You should take some gloves.”

I nodded, and set off to my task.

+~+~+

By the end of the day were were both tired and dirty, with greenhouse and cellar having proved unyielding of any hidden wealth. Mrs. Huffington-Brand had supplied some of the servants to shake out every single potted plant in the greenhouse, but to no avail. And whilst some of the wines in the cellar were high-quality ones, none were worth anything even remotely near the fortune that we were looking for. The couple were rather brusque at dinner, and I could see that their attitude was annoying Sherlock. 

We were back in our rooms before he spoke.

“Bacchus wired me a reply, sooner than I expected”, he said. 

“I know”, I said, surprised. “You told us at dinner.”

“He did mention something rather odd, which I did not think fitting for a dining-table”, Sherlock said. “Mr Elisha Huffington visited a dressmaker in London. A _ladies'_ dressmaker.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“To what end?” I inquired.

“It remains a mystery”, Sherlock said. “But we have an appointment with the legal-minded Mr. Stephenson tomorrow morning, and only two days before the deadline. Hopefully he can throw some light on matters. You had best retire to your 'store-cupboard'”.

I pouted.

+~+~+

I have to say that my reaction to Mr. Neil Stephenson was quite the reverse of that I had had towards the Huffington-Brands. He looked even younger than his years – he could not have been much more than twenty - but there was a calm competence about him that I could well imagine would reassure his clients. I sat down alongside my friend and waited to see what he would ask.

And waited. 

Sherlock seemed lost in thought, for some reason. At last he spoke.

“Mrs. Huffington-Brand does not seem overly enamoured of you, sir.”

The young man smiled.

“I am, in effect, the person who will probably supervise the process of her being reduced from living in a castle to living in a small house in town”, he said. “Were the roles reversed, I doubt that I would be overflowing with thankfulness.”

“You wrote the will for the late Mr. Elisha Huffington?”

“I did, sir. I am sure that his cousin and her husband have fully briefed you on the contents. My client did not seek to keep things from them.”

“Except the whereabouts of his fortune”, Sherlock said pointedly. 

“It was his money to leave as he wished”, the young man said easily. “I am glad that I am not possessed of so much wealth. Money does not always bring happiness, as I have seen with more than one client.”

“What would you have done?” Sherlock asked, to my surprise.

“Sir?” The man looked as confused as I felt.

“Hypothetically”, Sherlock said. “If you were possessed of a castle and all that wealth, what would you do?”

The young man thought for a moment. 

“I would probably sell the castle”, he admitted. “Mr. Elisha kindly allowed me to stay there three nights when my own lodgings were flooded out last winter, and I do not think that I have ever been so cold in my entire life! Although to be fair, it was a bedroom in one of the towers. The money – I would see my dear father right first, because I owe him everything. Then I would probably invest the remainder for when I marry and have a family of my own.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Sherlock asked. I wondered at the personal nature which his questioning had taken, but the lawyer seemed not to mind. Although he did blush at that question.

“There is a... lady who lives in Settle”, he admitted. “But she comes from money, and although I am fortunate enough for her to return my affections, her father would never countenance such a disparaging match. He is an important person in the Riding.”

“One can only live in hope”, Sherlock smiled. “What did you yourself think of the late Mr. Elisha Huffington?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your personal opinion. You had several dealings with the man. I would like to know more of him.”

The clerk thought for a moment.

“He was, in outward appearance, a cold man”, he said, “and sparing with his affections. But he always treated me well, and from something my father once said, I have a suspicion that he helped obtain this post for me. And it was his idea to provide for all of his servants, or at least those who deserved it. They all got cash bequests, but the loyal ones got more. The butler, who had been stealing from him, got a farthing! That is why I would call him a fair man. The wealth he amassed is somewhere in that castle; he would not leave his cousin and her husband an impossible task.”

No matter if they are the most obnoxious people in the West Riding, I thought cattily. 

“Just a difficult one”, Sherlock smiled, shooting me a look for some reason. “Good day, sir. We have already taken up far too much of your valuable time.”

He stood and bowed before sweeping from the room, leaving me trailing in his wake.

+~+~+

We spent the rest of the day sorting through the theatrical costumes that had been bequeathed to Mr. Stephenson, but unless the old lamp I found actually had a genie in it, I could not see how a load of old clothes helped solve the case. I covertly rubbed the lamp anyway.

“What is it, o master?”

I yelped, and dropped the lamp on my foot. Sherlock had materialized right behind me. 

“Do not do that!” I scowled. 

He chuckled, holding up a belt and harness, both bejewelled with rhinestones.

“Imagine Mrs. Huffington-Brand doing the Dance of the Seven Veils!” he grinned. I grimaced.

“I hate you!” I muttered. “Now I shall not even be able to look at her at dinner tonight.”

“You will not have to anyway”, he said. “She and her husband are having a last 'fling' on the estate's money, shopping in London today, then travelling back tomorrow afternoon to see if we have solved the case.”

“Have we?” I asked.

“In a way”, he said. “I have one more question that I should have asked Mr. Stephenson earlier, then we have another interview with someone else tomorrow morning, and all should be done. Though I doubt that the Huffington-Brands will be overly pleased at what I have to tell them.”

My eyes alighted on what looked like several straps of leather, and I picked it up to discover it was apparently some sort of Roman costume, possibly that of a centurion or a gladiator. Sherlock was ferreting around in a chest with his back to me, and I grinned as I imagined the noble gladiator Castiellus, returning home after yet another victory in the ring...... and I really needed to improve my reading matter.

If I had been sharper, or at least less blunt, I would have spotted the long mirror on the far side of where Sherlock was standing.

+~+~+

The following morning we left the house early, and called in at Crampton & Brookes just after nine o'clock. We were fortunate enough to catch Mr. Stephenson on his way in, but Sherlock told me to wait outside as he said that the question that he had to ask would take barely a minute. When he resumed the cab, he called out, “the station, please”. 

“What was your question?” I asked.

“I asked Mr. Stephenson exactly when the late Mr. Elisha Huffington made his will”, Sherlock said. “The latest one was finished two weeks before his death. Did you bring your camera as I asked?”

“Yes”, I said. “Is it important?”

“In a way”, he said evasively.

We quickly arrived at the station, and to my surprise (and delight) we caught the local train down the Worth Valley, alighting at the Brontë village of Haworth.

“I promise you time for some sightseeing shortly”, Sherlock said with a smile, “hence the camera, but first, we must pay a call.”

We walked into the village, turning away from the centre and climbing a steep hill to a small but well-kept little cottage. Sherlock walked up the path and knocked at the door, which was opened by an elderly lady with grey hair.

“Good day, Miss Parsons”, Sherlock smiled. “My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I would like to speak with your brother, if I may.”

She looked at him silently for a moment, then backed away to let him in. I felt instinctively that Sherlock had found her out in some way, though I knew not how. At the table in the single main room an elderly man sat stiff and alert, clearly having heard my friend's name.

“I do not wish to distress either of you”, Sherlock said reassuringly, “and provided you deal straight with me, I shall keep both of your names out of what is about to happen. To start, there is something I would have you confirm for me. When did Mr. Elisha Huffington come to your house?”

The two looked at each other, as if considering whether or not to attempt to bluff their way out of this, but evidently the man decided to make a clean breast of it.

“A week before he passed on”, he sighed. “I met him at the station, and took him to meet Flo at my brother's house – there was no way he could have managed that hill. I took him all the way back to the castle afterwards; the whole trip exhausted him.”

“He asked you to do something for him”, Sherlock said. “Was it all legal and above board?”

“Yes”, the man said with a sigh. “He had a lawyer come in from Leeds when those two harpies were away in York for a day, and draw the whole thing up legal-like. All that Flo and I had to do was sign on the dotted line.”

“Where is it?” Sherlock asked.

The woman hesitated only briefly before crossing to a huge dresser, taking a key from her pocket and unlocking a small drawer. She extracted what was clearly an official document, and handed it to Sherlock.

“The true last will and testament of Mr. Elisha Huffington which does, I am sure, honour his request”, Sherlock said. “Thank you both. It has been a most interesting case.”

He bowed and left the room, and I followed him. 

+~+~+

We lunched at a local tavern and I did get to see several of the great authoresses' landmarks, including the Parsonage. I did not try to get Sherlock to tell me what he knew, for I knew full well that he would do so in his own good time. 

We returned to Keighley and Armsworth Castle to find the Huffington-Brands waiting impatiently for us.

“Well?” Mrs. Huffington-Brand demanded. I decided that yes, it was possible to like her even less

“I regret to say that my initial assessment was incorrect”, Sherlock said. “It is my opinion that the wealth you were seeking was indeed shipped out of the castle before your search began, and that your cousin was merely having a final jest at your expense.”

They both stared at him incredulously.

“And that is it, Mr. Great Detective?” Mr. Huffington-Brand scoffed. “Hah! Well, we certainly shan't be paying _your_ bill!”

“There will be no bill”, Sherlock said. “A few days of Yorkshire air has been most refreshing. Come, doctor. Let us pack, and we should be able to catch the last train to connect at Leeds.”

+~+~+

“So Mr. Elisha Huffington lied”, I smiled, as we sat back having made the train with less than five minutes to spare. “But what was the reason for the second will?”

“The new will changed one and only one thing”, Sherlock said. “It left the castle and estate not to the town, but to someone else.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Mr. Neil Stephenson.”

I stared at him in shock.

“But why?” I asked. “And why did Mr. Elisha Huffington lie about the wealth?”

“He did not lie”, Sherlock said airily. “I lied. The money is still in the castle, albeit not for long.”

I gaped. 

“Where?” I demanded. He turned to me.

“Do you remember the costume for the Dance of the Seven Veils?” he asked.

I groaned at the reminder.

“Those rhinestones were not rhinestones”, he said quietly. 

I swallowed hard. That costume must have had about a hundred stones in it, and if they were all real..... it had to have been worth an absolute fortune. 

“Mr. Elisha Huffington knew how his cousin and her husband looked down on Mr. Stephenson and his theatrical group”, Sherlock said. “They would never think of looking at mere actors' clothes. I am fairly sure that our young lawyer friend is bright enough to work things out, although I called at his work and left him a clue. Our young friend gets the wealth – and more besides.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Do you remember how, when we met Mr. Stephenson, I paused for a time before asking him questions?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes”, I said.

“I was trying to recall as to why he looked vaguely familiar”, Sherlock said. “When we went back to the castle, I knew the minute we stood before the huge portrait of Mr. Elisha Huffington in the main hall who he really was.”

I stared, as the pieces finally fell into place.

“He is the old man's son!” I gasped. Sherlock nodded.

“I dare say that Mr. Elisha's own father was instrumental in forcing him to place his illegitimate son at a distant orphanage”, Sherlock said. “But a father's love cannot so easily be overcome. Once his own father had passed on, Mr. Elisha brought his son back into the area, secured a surrogate father for him, and did everything he could to make his life easier. He could have left everything to him directly, but because his cousin and her husband were so unpleasant, he took the opportunity to torment them by holding out the prospect of riches before them, knowing that they could never find them.”

“But they brought you onto the case”, I pointed out.

“And had they been less obnoxious, I might have rewarded them with at least the jewels”, Sherlock said. “But life in a small, cramped house in town will do them both the world of good. Plus, Mr. Stephenson now has the wherewithal to pursue the lady of his dreams.”

“Yet they may put it about that you failed”, I objected.

“Publish their own relative poverty?” Sherlock said with a laugh. “No. I think not. Though you may choose not to publish this case yourself, my friend, otherwise the British public may start to think I am actually fallible!”

“They are more likely to think that you are actually modest!” I smiled.

He swatted at me, as our train rumbled back towards Leeds and the London express.

+~+~+

No rest for the good or the wicked, as Sherlock was plunged almost straight into a case of financial malpractice in the capital....

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: The railway from Keighley, where this story is set, past Haworth down to Oxenhope is today preserved, and one can still ride steam trains down to see where the famous authoresses lived.


End file.
